


Songbird, Cornflower, Buttercup

by a_static_world



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (yes they do), Emotions, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Nicknames, Pet Names, but they dont know it, hes got feelings!, they are in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:27:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24093571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: Geralt was accustomed to being alone. Until, that is, a particular bard with a penchant for nattering and a smile that brought as much coin as his singing attached himself to Geralt’s fucking hip, slotting himself into the witcher’s solitude as though the space had been reserved for him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 277





	Songbird, Cornflower, Buttercup

Geralt was accustomed to being alone. Not many who wanted to consort, or be caught consorting, with a witcher, outside of fucking and hiring. There were reasons he never stayed in one place too long; Blaviken hounded his heels as the threat of future misfortunes and slaughters haunted his future. So Geralt, as any witcher with a single wit about him, traveled alone, with only whores and various mares of the same moniker to provide company.

Until, that is, a particular bard with a penchant for nattering and a smile that brought as much coin as his singing attached himself to Geralt’s fucking hip, slotting himself into the witcher’s solitude as though the space had been reserved for him. 

Geralt, to his own consternation, found he did not quite mind. The bard flitted in and out of his life, staying for a few months before leaving to spread Geralt’s glory across the continent. Something in it reminded him of losing a tooth; you don’t realize how much you miss it until it’s gone, and you run your tongue a thousand times over the space where the tooth should be. Geralt shook it off, he always did. Nothing in his life was meant to be permanent. Feelings were distractions.

He couldn’t help, however, the way his chest clenched when he heard a lute. The relief when he stumbled across the bard in a tavern, a whorehouse, a castle, something in his gut relaxing when the man inevitably tagged along until some generously-endowed Lady with an even more generous purse stole his focus. 

Jaskier stayed, this time, for a while, nearing his third month of travel. Not that Geralt counted. Merely noticed patterns, keeping track the way his training entailed. He...enjoyed it, bedding down in a small inn, wary whispers of villagers quickly quelled by Jaskier’s lute and charm. He’d come to their room after his set still humming, composing on the fly, trying to rhyme  _ striga _ with...something.  _ Like a lark _ , something in Geralt’s mind whispered, as he watched the other man stride about the room in the warm glow of firelight. Patterns, Geralt reminded himself. Pattern recognition. Knowing those around you better than they know themselves. 

Until he found himself rumbling into the darkness-he’d never been much of a whisperer-to the man a scant few feet away, in a bedroll on the floor of the room. 

“Good night, lark.”

A beat, two, three, as Geralt heard Jaskier’s breath stop and resume.

“Good night, darling. Do get some sleep, we can’t have you fighting whatever they’re paying you for without a full forty winks.”

Geralt slept easier than he had in months. 

Geralt slumped in the back of a seedy inn, half-listening to Jaskier singing, exhausted from the day’s hire. He swept his eyes lazily across the room, vetting each and every patron before allowing his eyelids to fall shut. They were safe, at least for the moment, and he could hear or scent danger faster than most could see it. He heard Jaskier finish, charming as ever (when had  _ irritating _ become  _ charming _ , by the way, what the fuck). The corners of his lips tugged up without his permission as the bard’s voice drew closer, making small talk as he went. 

“Half asleep already, old man?”

“Hello to you too, lark.” And oh, didn’t Geralt just relish in Jaskier’s rising body temperature, indicative of the lovely (lovely?) blush now painting his features. He’d just barely decided to open his eyes when a shuffling, stumbling set of footsteps and the reek of alcohol and tobacco made its way to the table. 

“Hey there, bardling, what say you come up with me tonight? Just- you got those damn cornflower blue eyes, hell of a sight prettier than your buddy’s over there. Bet they’d look real nice all filled up with tears after I’m done with you. Whaddaya think?”

Geralt felt Jaskier tense next to him and oh, fuck, he was  _ scared.  _ Geralt had yet to open his eyes. He soon found he didn’t need to, as the growl starting low in his chest sent the footsteps shuffling rather rapidly back away. 

Jaskier thanked him, shaken for only a moment before bouncing back and chattering over his bowl of stew. Geralt offered only appropriately-pitched hums, knowing that the bard was content to speak enough for the both of them. Eventually they made their way up stairs that creaked under Geralt but made no protest under Jas’ nimble feet. They washed up, changed, moving not in tandem but something close to sync, the familiarity of the other (pattern recognition, Geralt’s brain feebly supplied) lending a warmth entirely outside of the blazing hearth. 

It was only in the dark, in the quiet hush of a town entirely abed, that Geralt heard Jaskier come undone. He  _ knew  _ that prick rattled his lark,  _ shit. _ It wasn’t until the cold of the floor bit into his bare feet that Geralt realized he was out of his bed and halfway to Jaskier. He wasn’t- prepared, for this; witchers were brutal and unfeeling and yet something in Geralt  _ felt _ . So he let his feet track the rest of the floor, knelt down beside the other man’s bed, reached out a cautious hand. 

“Hey, lark. What’s with the sad tune?”

_ Really? _

Geralt’s hand came to rest on Jaskier’s shoulder, and he took it as a good sign when the bard didn’t shake away. Instead he simply breathed out, a shaking, shuddering thing that made the witcher wish he’d done more than just grow l. He carefully swept his thumb over freckled skin, loosing a breath of his own as Jaskier stopped shaking and relaxed, just slightly.

“I- it used to happen a lot, the comments. I was used to it, really, I promise. It stops when you’re around, usually, but this time they got bold, I guess.”

“Hmm.”

Oh, Geralt  _ really _ should have opened his eyes. He stood quickly, making his way to his bed. It took the work of a few seconds to shove it next to Jaskier’s, and a few more to bed down and move close, ignoring the man’s sputtered protestations. 

“Hush. Sleep, cornflower.”

And if Jaskier minded that he woke the next morning twined in Geralt’s arms, well. He certainly never complained about it.

They didn’t talk about it. It wasn’t something that needed discussing, really. The only difference was that now Jaskier stuck for good. Or so Geralt hoped (gods, he  _ hoped _ now). Nights in an inn, tangled together in the middle of two pushed-together cots, Jaskier’s hands warm on Geralt’s waist as Roach took them from town to town;  _ fuck _ , but Geralt might just break for good if he lost this. 

He began purposely avoiding larger towns- anywhere with nobility could damn well take care of their own monsters. They meandered village to backwater village, maintaining a careful distance that fell away in private. Sometimes Geralt felt as if Jaskier had wormed his way into his very marrow; everything he said and did resonated deep within the witcher, pride mingling with the bitter, ever-present fear of abandonment. 

One day they stopped, halfway to their next destination (a kikimora in a village found exclusively by word of mouth). It was blazing hot, enough so that Geralt had stripped down to his undershirt and Jaskier, in his own words, was positively melting. 

“Geralt, darling, if we don’t stop at this riverbank I think I might die.”   
“Hmm.”

But Geralt pulled Roach over anyway, just barely stopping her before Jaskier was slipping out of the saddle- and his clothing. 

Melitele  _ above _ . The ease with which the bard moved, behaved around Geralt took his breath away.  _ You’ve been too feared for too long _ . 

No. Now was not the time for picking apart his various walls; now was for Jaskier, for the eyes he was giving Geralt, the silent invitation to  _ get over here, you _ . 

So, naturally, Geralt stripped as well, hissing as the cool of the river bit into his skin. His lark ( _ his _ , and, save him, but he almost groaned aloud) wasted no time, flipping a handful of water into the witcher’s face before pulling him down into a kiss. He pushed Geralt down until he sat neck-deep in the gentle current, positioned himself on the other man’s lap. 

There were things Geralt had dreamed of: stability, steady coin, nobody in his life relying on him. This... this was none of those things, and yet it was  _ everything.  _ Had someone told Geralt twenty years ago that, in the near future, he would trust anyone, much less a  _ human _ enough to touch his face, share his bed? Geralt would have laughed in their face. (Love. This was love. He loved Jaskier.)

The other man was murmuring softly, finger skating across eyelid and cheekbone and temple, thighs braced on Geralt’s waist to keep from floating off. Geralt tuned back into the world in time to catch Jaskier’s stream of comments.    
“-Really, what  _ have  _ I gotten myself into, the way he looks at me, I can’t even focus when he does;  _ buttercups _ for eyes, my love, and I’m not just saying that because I see myself in them. Prettiest fuckin’ color, I swear to sweet Melitele above, I want to positively  _ drown  _ in them-”

Jaskier cut off as Geralt kissed him, melting as he wound cool hands into the witcher’s unbound hair. He pulled apart to bump his nose against the other man’s, a movement so achingly, disgustingly  _ adorable _ that Geralt could practically hear his brothers cackling in Kaer Morhen. 

“Just my luck, I think, that I love a man with eyes the color of my name.” 

“Hmm. Love?”

Jaskier pulled back, flinging a hand over his chest in a theatrical gesture of mock offense that made Geralt smile. 

“Pardon me, buttercup? You’re going to tell me, a bard, troubadour, poet, love  _ expert _ -” a pause, a suggestive wiggle of an eyebrow before the facade came back, “-that we do not love each other? Do you think, dear witcher, that I miss the way you gaze upon my lovely, luscious, pert, delectable-”

“I yield.”

Jaskier only grinned and leaned in once more, closing his eyes and tucking his face into the witcher’s neck. Geralt wished it could be this forever, the chill of the stream warded off by his bard’s sun-warm skin, the soft noises of Roach nibbling at the grass, spending his days in a wash of love and security. Maybe- maybe one day, he could have that. For now he could be content with moments, and the knowledge that Jaskier would be by his side come what may.

**Author's Note:**

> HI  
> GUESS WHO HAS A NEW FAVORITE PAIRING  
> ME AND ODDCONSTELLATION  
> the witcher emotionally physically spiritually fucked me over and its my job to fix it   
> come find me on tumblr and we can Scream


End file.
